Beauty and tragedy in Macau

I'm going to go all Quentin Tarantino on you, and start at the ending first:

I ran around in a panic, looking for someone to help me. Obviously I was tired - the whole day had been one long walk with only sporadic breaks. Perhaps that is what caused the mental lapse. Or maybe it was just my poor memory (about which my wife will gladly provide you many, many, anecdotes.) All I know was that I had lost my camera, and I was distraught. Tragedy had struck.

Ok, there, I've done it and got that out of the way. I apologize in advance for the plain nature of my blog entries going forward. You'll have to use your imagination from here on out, because that beautiful, expensive, digital camera I purchased expressly for the purposes of this trip is now no more. I sometimes dream that it's been found and I have it in my possession again. But alas, I'm still waiting for that Good Samaritan to turn it in. Fat chance.

In any case, today I decided to head to Macau, that other anomaly of international politics (the first being Hong Kong.) As the British were to Hong Kong, so were the Portuguese to Macau. Upon departing, which they did not do until 1999, they left behind a crazy mix of cultures that manifested itself in the art, the architecture, and the ambiance of the island.

The ferry ride from Hong Kong to Macau took an hour, and was painless. It was immigration that was the headache. Not that anything surprises me at this point, but I can't say the same for the poor officers that are unlucky enough to have me pull up to the immigration window. It's like they see a Pakistani passport and they silently reach for the panic button hidden under their desks. Alarm bells will ring in a distant room, and reinforcements will arrive, speaking in native tongues that are incomprehensible to me, but which are no doubt saying things like, "Bravo 1 to Base, Bravo 1 to Base, we have a Code Red in progress. Over. Request immediate backup. Over."

20 minutes later (after having upset everyone in line behind me), I was asked to pay for a visa and let in to China ... again ... after just having left ... China. Such is the quirk of the Specially Administered Regions (SARs) that are Hong Kong and Macau. They belong to China in name only (for now).

Macau was cool. The ruins of St. Paul's Church are the number one tourist destination, even though they consist only of a facade of a once glorious building. But what a facade! Easily five stories high, the entry to the seventeenth century church sits atop a hill, and in its architectural detail manages to document Christianity itself. Tiny statues tell stories, and there are depictions of significant events in Macanese Catholocism.

A few steps away, not far from the old Monte Fort, is a magnificent European square with the old Senate building looking over everything. You'd be forgiven for thinking you were in Europe. Street signs are in Portuguese, churches and cathedrals are everywhere, and even the cobblestoned alleyways wind and turn in a way that they can only do in the Old Country.

Walking around was fun, as was snapping pictures of Chinese life in a Portuguese setting (which, alas, no will ever see.) I even had the opportunity to visit Chinese temples, which reminded that I was, after all, in Asia. And the food was delicious. There's a way chicken is prepared here that is simply amazing - a blend of spices that are at once Chinese and European at the same time. Best fried chicken I've ever had.

As the day turned to night, I walked back over to the ferry terminal, bought my ferry ticket, and rushed to the gate as I was running late. It was then that my eye caught a sign by a travel service desk for a hotel - "Greek Hotel Check-in," it said. "Greek Mythology Service Available." It took me a while to figure out that what they probably meant was that Greek interpretation services were available, but I stopped to capture a picture anyway. After all, where else would I be offered a chance to communicate with Greek Gods? Alas, that picture would be the last one I'd take.

Somewhere between taking that picture, and walking through immigration, the ferry check-in gate, the waiting lounge, and the ferry itself, I put my camera down and never picked it back up again. There were always lots of people around me, so it infuriates me that no one even said a thing or tried to tell me I was leaving something behind. I know they must have seen it.

Sorry. Just me trying to find excuses for a brain fart. At least Macau was fun.